


hold my head inside your hands

by ataxophilia



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Chuck Lives, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:09:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re getting closer, on the verge of slipping from casual fucks to actual friends, maybe more, but they’re not close enough for heart-to-hearts yet. Not while sober, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold my head inside your hands

**Author's Note:**

> Part of me wants to develop this into a longer, proper fic with an actual plot. Maybe someday.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

On Sundays Raleigh never rolls out of bed before midday. It’s something he picked up from Yancy, who wasn’t a morning person on the best of days: Sundays are for sleep. Any Kaiju that surfaced close to their shatterdome on a Sunday morning was beaten down ruthlessly, Yancy’s fighting sharpened by a righteous anger at being pulled out of bed on one of his precious Sundays.

Raleigh never got it, really, the whole sleeping in thing - there was too much to do to waste half the day half-asleep, especially once they were fully qualified pilots, the safety of the USA resting on their shoulders - but after Alaska, after Knifehead, he starts staying in bed on Sundays out of respect for the memory of his brother. Somewhere along the line it becomes a habit, part of his routine, and once the goddamn war is over there’s very little that can get him to break it.

Chuck - army-brat Chuck, more or less raised with dog tags and crack-of-dawn wake-up calls - thinks it’s hilarious. 

"You’re a fucking insomniac six nights a week," he says one Sunday, right at the start of this mess between them, back when he still has bandages taped over most of his torso, when they’re only sleeping together because it’s fun and they survived and fuck it, they’re heroes now. "You only get in the bed because we’re fucking in it, and even then you’d rather be, I don’t know, on the kitchen table or something like that-" he pauses to take a bite out of the toast he’s waving, narrowing his eyes at Raleigh across the aforementioned kitchen table, "-but on Sunday mornings my life is forfeit if I make too much noise getting up to piss? It’s screwed up, Becket, that’s what it is."

Raleigh shrugs and reaches for an apple, used to Chuck’s breakfast rants. He hadn’t realised Chuck would be so vocal about, well,  _everything_ once he loosened up enough around Raleigh to actually talk without boasting or making a threat, but it wasn’t exactly an awful surprise. Chuck is weirdly adorable when he gets worked up over something, as much as he’d hate Raleigh for thinking it.

"Well, I’m sorry my sleeping schedule is such an inconvenience to you," he drawls, choosing to tease rather than explain the quirk. They’re getting closer, on the verge of slipping from casual fucks to actual friends, maybe more, but they’re not close enough for heart-to-hearts yet. Not while sober, at least. 

"That’s not-" Chuck flushes darkly and looks away, face folded into a frown. "That’s not what I meant." 

He’s still scowling when he gets up a few minutes later and walks out of the room in silence. The door slams loudly behind him, and Raleigh almost regrets saying what he said, but he’s not ready to talk about Yancy yet, and the guilt sitting heavy in his gut is better than the ache that comes with thinking about his brother. 

It gets harder to believe that when a fortnight comes and goes and he still hasn’t heard anything from Chuck, but he’s too stubborn to call until Mako does it for him. “You’re both imbeciles,” she mutters, holding out the mobile as it connects to Chuck’s number. 

It’s not the first time she marches into Raleigh’s flat and kicks him up the ass, metaphorically - and one memorable time, literally - speaking, and he’s sure it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t make him any less grateful the next morning, when he’s got Chuck curled up against his side again, face slack with sleep.

Things get easier, which Raleigh thinks is probably thanks to Mako, but also to Chuck, who stops prying at Raleigh’s jagged edges and starts waiting for Raleigh to open them up himself. They still fight, almost constantly, over little things like TV shows and big things like Chuck’s fights with his dad, but in the end there’s always that soft smile pulling at Raleigh’s mouth and Chuck in his bed, so Raleigh figures the rows aren’t disastrous. Eventually, Chuck starts cooking at Raleigh’s flat instead of his own; makes Raleigh proper spag bol, like he hasn’t had in years, and real curries, not the take-away crap Raleigh lived off for years, and improvised stews when they’ve forgotten to do the shopping. 

They end up sleeping together - actually sleeping, not fucking and then collapsing against each other, but getting into bed and just sleeping - more nights than they don’t, and then it’s closer to every night, and then Chuck hasn’t spent a night back at his flat for over a month.

And still, Raleigh doesn’t even realise Chuck has moved in until Mako, wonderful, patient Mako, points it out. “You haven’t eaten anything not cooked by him in weeks,” she says, and Raleigh blushes bright red but asks Chuck about it that night, stammering out something might have begun as a question or an invitation and ended up mostly incoherent.

Chuck blinks, confused, so Raleigh swallows roughly and says, “Are we living together?” in an almost normal voice, which makes Chuck blink again and then laugh until his cheeks are pink with it. They’ve grown better at reading each other, over all the months, but Raleigh can’t tell if Chuck’s laughing at the idea of them living together, and his chest tightens with panic until Chuck steps forward and presses a hand against the back of his neck, eyes gone softer than Raleigh’s ever seen before.

"Such an idiot," he says, his voice a few shades too fond to actually be rude, and pulls Raleigh down into a messy kiss. “‘Course we are, you oblivious fucker," he mutters into Raleigh’s lips a minute or two later. Raleigh doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

(Later, much later, when it’s no longer strange to think of things as theirs rather than his or Chuck’s, Raleigh slips out of bed on a Sunday morning and pads down to the kitchen to watch Chuck cook brunch. Chuck turns to shoot him an easy smile when he sits down at the table, his hair a mess, a pair of Raleigh’s sweatpants hanging loose on his hips, and Raleigh - this is closest Raleigh has felt to being home since Yancy, and it freaks him out and warms him all over, both at the same time. So when Chuck’s finished, when he brings the plates over and slides into the seat across the table, Raleigh says, “Yancy never woke up on a Sunday unless the world would end if he didn’t,” and waits until Chuck’s face unfolds into understanding before starting to eat.)


End file.
